


everything, in time

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, But It Gets Serious, Casual Sex, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Hall Pass-ish, Harry is a Good Friend, Healing, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, Light Swearing, Love Confessions, Missed Opportunities, Mutual Pining, Open Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Hermione Granger, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Relationships, Reconciliation, Reconnections, Romance, Ron isn't a bad guy, Tags Contain Spoilers, no ron bashing, only briefly though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Time has never been on Hermione's side. For a witch so results-oriented, she's dreadful at breaking down its passage into achievable tasks and goals meant to help guide her on her path to long-dreamed-of successes. Instead, she's found herself a drone on the slippery corporate ladder, desperately clinging to her marriage with both hands lest one more thing slips through her fingers, but neither she nor Ron can bear the pain that their failed attempts have wrought on each other any longer.The finality of goodbye too definitive for the both of them, Hermione proposes a six-month break from the trappings of their relationship to reconcile the parts of themselves they lost along the way and learn the people they've grown into. With the heavy weight of her own failures balanced precariously on her shoulders, Hermione embarks on a journey to find the love that she lost so long ago—for herself, for her career, and even for the relationships she ran from—even if she finds it in the arms of someone she thought she’d long since left in the past.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 24
Kudos: 29





	everything, in time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! Long time, no see (for a WIP, at least). This is being posted for Evil Author’s Day 2021; as such, it will be continued at a snail's pace. Yes, I know I already have one WIP on the go, but it's been languishing in my docs because I'm truly not sure how it will be received. **This has no update schedule.** Further, this story has been neither alpha read or beta read; any errors are my own. 
> 
> **  
> _Hermione and Draco are endgame in this_  
> **
> 
> All chapter titles and lyrics at the beginnings of the chapter are from Taylor Swift’s _folklore_ album according to discography order. It’s not required listening while you read, but it may help you get the feel of the story that I’m going for! I don’t own the rights to HP or folklore.

****

**Chapter 1 - _the 1_** _  
_ _“and if my wishes came true / it would've been you”_ _  
_ _“it would’ve been fun / if you would’ve been the one.”_

_~_

"Hugo, you forgot your suitcase!" Hermione cries, sprinting through the barrier at Platform 9 3/4.

It’s a mild morning for September, unseasonably cool despite the light through the stained glass windows sending swirling motes of warm amber and ochre over the floor. It catches in the rolling billows of smoke from the Hogwarts Express, lending the platform an otherworldliness that still manages to catch Hermione’s breath.

Something about the platform calms the flipping of her stomach for a brief moment, lulling the nerves that seize her by the veins. It’s been years since she boarded for her own schooling, but still it runs, shuttling students to another year of education and the kind of self-discovery that only leaving the insularity of their parents’ home can really achieve.

The piercing warning of the train’s whistle shatters the illusion, and Hermione’s heart resumes its foothold in her throat.

A lanky-limbed shot, Hugo runs ahead of her, his bright red hair flopping about in the afternoon light with nary a care for his huffing mother. “Albus! Hey, Albus, wait up!”

Resignation is a bitter pill in Hermione’s stomach, but she slows her stroll and pastes a smile on her face. Parents mill about the platform, children with varying degrees of luggage toting along behind them. Although none of them will look at her directly, Hermione can feel the weight of their inspection on her, picking her apart, as they seek chinks in the Golden Girl’s armour.

It stings still—the weight of failed expectations. 

Pausing just beyond the train, Hermione heaves a deep breath through her nostrils and slowly exhales through incrementally parted lips—an old habit, but effective nonetheless. 

“Whoa, hold on there, Rosey!” Ron crashes through the bricks, Rose’s hand clasped in his own. Both of them giggle as Hermione tries to flag down Hugo, but Ron diverts his interest back to their younger child. "Now that never gets old, does it Rosey?" Ron tweaks their daughter's cheek, eliciting another round of giggles.

It’s a tradition that only Ron has with their daughter—their relationship so close, so warm—and Hermione can’t help the small grin that lifts her lips as Ron loosens their daughter’s grip on him and reaches into the depths of his pockets to retrieve her shrunken luggage. “What do you think?”

It’s not the first time that Rose has seen the Hogwarts Express—not by a long shot—but Hermione doesn’t miss the light that effuses her gaze, the childlike wonder that, at long last, Rose will get to board the locomotive alongside her brother. 

“Mum, do you think Juniper is here yet?” Hugo is out of breath, colour suffusing his cheeks beneath the freckles smattering his skin as he trots back to them. Albus and James laugh in his wake as he accepts the suitcase Hermione offers. "Thanks, Mum. I wanted to sit with her,” he mumbled

Ron's booming laughter answers him. "Well, I would hope so or she’ll miss the train."

Hermione answers him with a smothered smile, affection colouring her tone at her son’s less-than-subtle crush. "It _is_ Neville, dear. He’s not exactly known for his punctuality” she whispers to Ron. To Hugo, she adds, “Neville is a professor; he’s well aware of the departure time. Why don’t you wait for your sister, and then you can both go find Juniper together?" 

"I'm sure he’ll resent that," Ron mock whispers under his breath, checking Hermione with his hip as he helps Rose unload her remaining trunk from the trolley. 

It’s a friendly gesture that once would have been accompanied by a lingering hand to her hip or a secret smile between them that would have stolen Hermione’s breath. Now, it’s perfunctory and habitual, and she sidesteps it, hiding her grimace with an encouraging smile at Hugo.

It falls quickly.

True to form, Hugo scowls. “Mum, I don’t want to sit with Rose. She’s a firstie.”

Immediately, Rose’s eyes cloud, and Ron steps in front of their daughter while Hermione levels a stern frown at Hugo. "Alright now, here's some money for the trolley witch for the both of you. Don't load up on chocolate or you’ll—"

"Spoil our dinner for the feast," Rose parrots, rolling eyes that have mercifully cleared of tears. "I know, Dad. You tell Hugo that every year."

He chuffs her under the chin "Pardon your old father for wanting his children to learn from his mistakes."

Hermione laughs, familiar warmth returning to her and providing a needed moment of levity in the mire of her guilty facade. "Ronald Weasley, I don't think I've ever seen you turn down a meal no matter how much you've stuffed yourself beforehand."

Ron looks abashed for a singular moment before he sends a cheeky grin at Hugo. "You know what I always say, son. You never turn down an opportunity for sustenance, yeah?"

"Especially not when it comes to chocolate,” Hugo tacks on, deadpan.

Hermione and Ron exchange a knowing nod; their son had certainly inherited his father's sweet tooth. "Alright, but don't forget to brush your teeth or—"

"Or you'll tell Gram and Papa," both Hugo and Rose groan together, rolling their eyes again.

Beyond them, the train horn sounds a high, roiling whistle that cuts through the air, and excitement lights up Hugo's eyes. "Mum, Dad, we've got to go!" He glances over his shoulder, worrying his lip. "They'll leave us if we don't get on the train." 

Ron's expression sobers. "It's not a joke. Remind me to tell you about the time your Uncle Harry and I had to steal your Grandpa Weasley's car to get back to Hogwarts in second year when it left without us."

Wonder and jealousy akin fight for dominance in Hugo’s eyes; the wonder wins. "You _what_ ? Why do you always forget to tell us the _cool_ stories? Forget about your no good sneak of a rat! I want to hear the stories about you doing illegal things."

Hermione's laughter surprises her. There’s far more illegality in their past than she wishes to share with her kids. "Your father will tell you all about it at the Christmas hols, right?"

Ron nods seriously, holding his hand up. "Promise." 

The rolling whistle of the train stalls Hugo from pressing for more. "I'll hold you to that!" he shouts as he begins to jog towards the train, his trunk rolling over the ground behind him. Rose presses frantic kisses to both Hermione and Ron’s cheeks before she darts after her brother, enormous suitcase nearly eclipsing her form.

"I have absolutely no doubt about that," Ron mutters under his voice, rolling his eyes. 

Hermione sniffs, trying to keep the tears in her eyes from spilling over as their youngest child runs towards the train. "You just had to bring it up." Though she aims for teasing, her voice breaks on a sob.

Ron sidles up beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist and tucking her into him. "You know he loves a good story," Ron says, his tone unapologetic. As the train begins to roll away with a parting whistle, Hugo's head pops out of the nearest window, frantically waving as he shouts his goodbyes.

Rosey presses her nose to the glass beneath him, smiling despite the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Hermione stands tucked into Ron's embrace, soaking up the solace he offers her as the train pulls away, its whistle growing distant as it disappears from the platform.

Her babies, all grown up.

Finally, when the train is little more than a speck on the horizon, Ron pulls away from her, peering critically down into her face. "Alright?"

She sniffles once, lifting the sleeve of her jumper to wipe away the tears that still sit cradled on her lash line. "I'll be okay," she whispers. "Just sad. It's hard, you know?"

His gaze flicks back towards the disappearing smoke lingering in the air, a pucker between his brows the only indication of the emotion warring within him. "I know."

Somehow, they’re both aware that it’s not simply the children’s departure they’re discussing.

They turn, walking towards the barrier to return home. Silence settles between them as they walk, and Ron slings his arm around her shoulders. It’s another gesture of familiarity that elicits both comfort and confusion in Hermione. “Crazy that they’re all grown up now.”

“It is. It still seems like yesterday that we had to talk Hugo down from jumping off the roof on Harry’s broom.”

Ron chokes on a laugh as they stroll back through the barrier and into King’s Cross station. “Do you remember Harry’s face?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes look that big. Not even when he saw the dragons during the Triwizard Tournament.” Hermione snickers.

Ron shakes his head. “And then we had to explain to Hugo exactly why he couldn’t ride Harry’s broom around at all hours of the night.”

“That was your explanation, if I remember correctly.” Hermione nudges him, and he pulls away with a swat. “He listened to one too many of your stories about your and Harry’s glory days.”

Comfortable silence settles between them again as they walk, but they make no move to re-enter the other’s space again.

It’s been like that for a while: comfortably distant. Hermione wakes before Ron, prepares for work and arranges everything for the morning, and Ron comes around by the time the kids are rolling out of bed. His position at the joke shop affords him a much more lenient schedule than Hermione’s does as a legal defendant, but they make it work. Often to the detriment of their relationship, yes, but Hermione and Ron both had settled into the comfort of it over the years. 

Only now, without the children…

The awkwardness is palpable between them, and Hermione grimaces as they walk, casting her gaze to the side. Ron keeps his eyes trained on the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets as they walk.

Almost as though if they tiptoe around the changes, they won’t have to address them. It’s easier that way. Hermione has long thought it would be less painful if they just ignored it, let it run its course. Certainly they’d find their way back to each other. 

They always have. Even during the Horcrux hunt, Ron had found a way to come back to the campsite. Her voice, he’d said, had guided his return. Something in her had thought that meant they were destined to be together.

Hermione doesn’t believe in soulmates—it bears too much resemblance to divination, that whimsical, ridiculous magic that caters to fools and beggars—but she’d thought they would fit together. They just needed to try; the hard times would pass, and they’d find their way back together like they always had.

Except they haven’t. 

It seems like only yesterday that the slight fullness of his face had been from youth instead of the indulgences of aging, but she still recognises the glimmer in his eyes.

Even if it no longer sends pixies fluttering through her stomach as it once did.

“So,” Ron says, kicking at the ground as they come to the end of the queue for the Apparition point. 

Hermione turns towards him, her shoulders taut. “So.” Ron doesn’t respond, but the line continues forward, and they shuffle along with it in silence until Hermione can’t bear it any longer. "Do you think they know—that they could tell?"

She doesn’t need to specify the awkwardness between them, and Ron lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "If they did, they didn't really give any indication of it." 

"Right," Hermione replies. She wrings her hands together, the metal of her wedding band cold against her free hand. "So... I suppose we ought to talk about this, then?" She gestures between the two of them as a pop of Apparition sounds.

Ron nods again, the joy that had lightened his countenance at remembering their youth only minutes before dimming. "I think so. Over tea?"

"Tea would be nice," she says, offering a smile at him. When he clasps her hand and smiles down at her in return, the nerves in her stomach calm. They could do this. It would be alright.

* * *

Ron Apparates them to the little coffee shop that they prefer just outside of the Ministry, where he orders them both their usual: Hermione's tea with a splash of milk to Ron's overly sweetened mint concoction that he swears isn’t as sickening as it sounds to Hermione.

The paper cup warms her more than Ron’s hand on the small of her back guiding her through the crowds.

When they arrive back at their cottage, Ron lets them in. Their interaction moves by rote: he summons food for the cat and deposits the measured cup into the bowl’s porcelain depths before he settles into his armchair before the fire.

Hermione sits opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her on the chaise portion of the sofa as she sips from her cup. "So," she prompts, relishing the burn of the tea as it slides down her throat. Just hot enough that it shocks her senses awake.

"So," Ron returns again, his fingers tracing along the rim of the cup. He always discards the little paper lid as he claims the cup taints his tea with the taste of parchment. "Here we are."

"Here we are." Hermoine grimaces. The conversation is stilted even though they both know it has been coming. She spins her wedding ring around her finger just for something to busy her fingers. Finally, she sets her tea aside, eyeing him seriously. “How long?"

Ron takes a long sip of his drink, thinking. "Have we been out of love?" he asks, his eyes tightening in the corners as he thinks. "I couldn't rightly say."

Hermione stares out the window, unable to pinpoint it herself. The dappled sunlight through the tree branches outside offer about as much illumination as her ruminating thoughts. "I couldn't either. It's like... all these years passed and suddenly we're here and I couldn't tell you what happened to get us here," she confesses, biting her lip.

"Exactly," Ron responds, his brow pinched. "I know that I still love you, but I'm not _in love_ with you. Does that make sense?" 

Hermione titters a nervous laugh, smoothing her hands over her trousers. "It makes all the sense in the world. Would it be insensitive of me to say that I feel the same way?" 

"Bloody hell, I'd feel like a right git if you told me you were still in love with me. At least I know I'm not just looking for an out," Ron jokes, though his complexion pales and his freckles stand out dramatically against his porcelain skin tone. He sets his own cup aside, running a hand over his face with a heavy sigh. "So what do we do?"

Outside, a child on a bike rides by, squeezing their horn with a gleeful scream that transports her back to simpler times. When Ron had chased Rosey down this very sidewalk as she careened madly away from him without training wheels. When Hugo had fallen out of the tree near the sidewalk and broken his arm. Tears blur her vision as she stares sightlessly beyond the walls of a home that holds so many memories that steal her breath away. "I don't know," she confesses, her voice breathy with her own sorrow.

It feels like a failure, admitting that after so many years of marriage and building a family together they'd managed to lose the love they held for each other.

Tears slip down her cheeks without her bidding, and she curses below her breath, dashing them away angrily.

"Hey," Ron whispers. The rustle of his clothing prefaces his approach, and suddenly he wraps her in a comforting hug, his familiar scent enveloping her: grass and mint toothpaste, a tiny hint of smoke twining the two together from so many experiments with George. "Talk to me, 'Mione. It's alright." 

She sighs, turning into him. "I just... how did we let this happen?"

Ron shrugs, his brows drawn low over his eyes. "I don't know, 'Mione, but I know that if we keep beating ourselves up over it then we'll never be happy."

A water laugh escapes her, and she shakes her head, cupping his cheek. "Oh, Ron. I wish it'd been you." She bites her lip, correcting herself. "You were the one for a while... but—"

"But we both grew and realised we want different things," Ron finishes gently, clasping her hand and pulling her back towards the chair he'd been sitting in. Carefully, he tugs her down into his lap and drapes her legs across his lean legs. "It's alright, Hermione. You're not losing me. Not entirely, at least. We've still got two kids together; we still _raised_ two incredible kids together."

Fear fists in her stomach, viceral and angry as Rose and Hugo's expressions will inevitably be when they find out flashing through her subconscious. "The kids... they'll hate me," she shudders. “They’ve always been closer with you.”

Ron shakes his head vehemently. "They won't. It'll be hard, at first, but they'll understand. You raised them to be mature, rational human beings. They'll understand and love you still no matter what. You're their mum. They can't just trade you out for a new one."

She snorts. "Yeah, wait until they get the idea in their head that their mum is trading in their father for a newer model. Then all hell will break loose.” 

“You ought to give them more credit than that,” Ron chides. He’s always been the gentler of the two with the kids, and it isn’t the first time that Hermione feels the deep chasm of guilt in her chest over the acknowledgement. “Unless that’s what you intend to do… then pot meet kettle.” A wry grin lifts his lips.

Her answering laughter is hollow, and she tips her head. “It’s just that Rosey is becoming a teenager—you know how teenage girls are.” Vulnerability settles over her as she whispers, “I don’t want her to think poorly of me.”

The couch dips as Ron leans forwards, wrapping his arms around her waist and propping his chin on her shoulder. “They’ll be upset for a while. We both know it. But they know how much you love them. Rosey will just need a bit of time. But I think it helps that we’re on the same page about this.” 

She grimaces, guilt a heavy weight on her shoulders despite Ron’s understanding. “You know I _do_ love you, Ron?” 

He nods, an understanding smile on his face. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes reminds her of their childhood. “I love you, too, ‘Mione.” He pauses, wringing his hands as he weighs his next words carefully. When he looks at her again, his eyes are tinged with regret. “But I don’t think it’s healthy for us to stay together—not when we’re not truly happy together.” 

The words hang there, between them. Damning. _Freeing._

Inexplicably, a laugh bubbles up from deep in her throat. “You honestly mean to tell me that you’re okay with the way this has ended? Is _ending?_ ” She’s not sure which tense of the verb to use, whether the breaking of them is complete, has only just begun, or is suspended in a nebulous in between that neither of them can articulate.

His face flickers through several emotions before he lands on something akin to vague discomfort. “I want you to be happy. I want to be happy.”

If there is one thing Hermione is certain about, it is that Ron is a rubbish liar. His non-answer only confirms the fact. 

She lifts an unimpressed brow at him as she disentangles herself from his lap and sits alongside him. “Honestly?”

He deflates against the sofa. "It sucks," he admits, "knowing that we put so much of ourselves into this relationship for it to not work out." Another wry grin cracks his features. "But how many people can say they got to spend twenty years with one of their very best friends?"

Ron's words warm her heart, and she sips at her lukewarm tea. "So, what should we do? Do we… do we continue to live together? Tell everyone we’ve split up?" The words lodge in the hollow of her throat, heavy and laden with meaning she’s not sure she wants to examine quite yet.

Pushing up, Ron begins to pace the floor in front of the sofa. His shoulders droop for the first time, age evident in the lines around his eyes. They’re usually the mark of his laughter, but today they’re a bitter reminder of how they’ve failed each other. "There's the old flat above the joke shop. George and I have been using it for storage since he moved in with Angelina, but it'll be alright for now."

Until he could move on elsewhere. The unspoken acknowledgement settles between them. "And you'll be—"

"Happy?" Ron asks. His lips flatten as he contemplates. "Well, I'm not sure happiness is an appropriate response to your marriage ending, but I think it'll work out. Better than both of us making each other miserable if we try to make this work over the foreseeable future."

Hermione huffs a laugh. "Since when did you become the sensible one in this relationship?" 

A blush brightens the tips of Ron's ears. "Several years under good influence?" 

She shakes her head, lifting the discarded cups and crossing to the kitchen. "Good answer.” The remaining tea swirls down the drain, muddied brown mixing with the water from the tap. She turns the cup upright in the sink, chewing her lip in contemplation as she stares at the wood grain. 

"What if we decide that we were wrong?" she blurts, turning towards him with wide eyes. "What if we just need some time to figure out what we really want?"

Ron props his hip on the counter opposite her, canting his head to the side as he thinks. "Then I suppose we'll just have to take it a day at a time and talk it out when, or _if_ , we feel otherwise," he muses, his face drawn in consideration. 

Slowly, she nods her agreement, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. Communication. That’s healthy. That’s what adults in a healthy, functional relationship should do. "Should we put a time limit on it? A specific amount of time to give each other to think it through?"

Ron looks up at her. "Would that help? Would you feel more comfortable that way?"

Hermione loosens a scoff. How ridiculous a notion that she would become comfortable with the fact that she is divorcing her husband of twenty years. "I don't know that I'd feel comfortable, per se, but it would help if it wasn't a solid decision now, yeah." 

A smile tips Ron's lips, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. "Alright. Then how about a trial period of six months. We'll live apart. We don't have to tell the kids—"

"And we can see other people if we so choose," Hermione adds, determination colouring her tone.

Ron startles, his eyes going wide. "Are you--" 

"Sure?" Hermione finishes. She’s not, but she’s not so selfish that she doesn’t see the way that Ron’s entire being seems to curl into itself at the notion of a time limit—their relationship may be over, but something in her can’t let it go entirely. Not yet. Not now, so soon after dropping both kids off for Hogwarts; she can’t bear the severing of that relationship entirely. She’s selfish, yes, but not so selfish to keep Ron _truly_ trapped here. "I think so. It's only fair that we're able to live our lives. If we're not together and we won't end up _being_ together at the end of this, we shouldn't get in the way of each other's happiness. It’s just… an option." Her voice peters out into a whisper.

An emotion she can’t name crosses his face, and he steps into her space, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "Hermione, we don't have to—"

She shakes her head. " I want to. Besides"—she aims what she hopes is a cheeky smile at him—"what if I find someone who wants to take a crack at Gryffindor's princess?"

A surprised laugh rumbles deep in Ron's throat as he folds her into a hug. "Y'know, for someone who is so adamantly Gryffindor, I forget how downright devious you can be," he teases, his grin lighting up his eyes. 

Finally she pulls away, settling her hands on his hips. "Do you need help? she offers, willing away the tears in her eyes. "I could help you pack a bag?"

Ron chuffs her under the chin, the familiar gesture of comfort he’d only ever offered Rose before shattering a bit more of Hermione’s heart, and pulls away from her. "I'd like that, yeah."

* * *

They spend the rest of the evening together packing a bag for Ron to take with him to the flat above Weasley Wizard Wheezes. 

During the packing, they trade stories about their favourite memories together as a married couple, and Hermione tries not to focus on just how much it feels like saying goodbye. 

When she reaches the bottom of his drawer, the faded red and gold of a Gryffindor jersey winks back at her. It’s been ages since she’s seen it, and the last time she remembers seeing it was shortly after Rosey’s birth. Ron had always insisted Hermione wear it around the house when she didn’t feel like putting on real clothes. She brushes a hand over it lovingly, smiling wistfully at the fond memories. 

"Always did love seeing you in that," Ron muses, his voice full of remembrance. "Seems like ages ago now, though."

Hermione chuckles. "I don't think I've worn it since Rosey went to primary school." 

Ron waggles his brows. "Yeah, you never did let me convince you into it after the incident at the Irish hotel after—"

"Okay, no need to remind me of that particular incident," she interrupts, heat working its way up her cheeks. 

Ron snorts, reaching for the worn cloth. "What do you think?"

The worn fabric slips between her fingertips, and she smiles to herself. "Do you mind if I keep it? Just... for now, at least. For the memories."

A ghost of longing passes over Ron's face. "Yeah. You know where to find me whenever you're done with it, yeah?"

“Yeah,” she whispers, unable to quell the sorrow that overwhelms her.

The jersey sits, cradled in her lap, as Ron continues to pack, allowing her a moment of needed solitude with her emotions. The boy with an emotional range of a teaspoon has grown into this lovely, thoughtful man before her—and for all the aspects of him she has grown to appreciate, she still can’t dredge up the love that he deserves from her.

Yet another lesson in her failings. 

Finally, Ron spells the last of his wardrobe into the two suitcases and shrinks them down to fit in his palm. Then, he turns, his face falling as he takes her in, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

"'Mione, don't cry," he implores, approaching her with his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's not goodbye." 

She knows that—truly, she does. But it’s the end of a relationship that was foundational in her maturation into an adult, helping her understand what it means to love and be loved, and seeing Ron standing there, suitcases in hand and room empty of all his personal items, makes it all the more real.

"I'll be okay," she says, her hands shaking even as she forces a smile to her face. "It hurts now, but I know this will be good. We deserve to be happy— _truly_ happy. Even if it’s not together."

Ron peers back at her, eyes as rid-rimmed as she’s sure hers are. "I’m beginning to feel like a puppet with as much as I've been nodding, so I won’t do it again, but—you're a smart witch. It's hard not to agree with you."

* * *

Ron’s remaining bags stand near the door, a spectre reminding Hermione of his impending departure.

Even the beef wellington she had prepared for the both of them is difficult to swallow. Tasteless bite after tasteless bite, Hermione forces it down only if not to worry Ron—he’s always gotten onto her about making sure she gets enough to eat; he takes after his mother that way.

By now, the sun has descended beyond the horizon. Stars begin to wink into existence in the night sky, but Hermione can hardly focus beyond the dread coiling in her stomach over the chink of their silverware on their wedding china.

It feels silly, to engage in the pomp and circumstance of the celebratory meal they’d planned to indulge in after seeing the children off to Hogwarts, but it’s a goodbye. Both to their days of parenthood as a unit and their relationship.

Despite the six-month window they’ve both agreed to, Hermione knows there will be no returning to the relationship they once shared. It’s as clear in Ronald’s ice-blue eyes as anything else, and she supposes she ought to feel guilty for not seeing the writing on the wall sooner.

Perhaps they’d have found a way to be happy over all these years instead of living a half life together going through the motions. 

When Ron shoves his plate away with a clatter of silverware and a satisfied sigh, Hermione forces her tears at bay, mirroring him. A beat of silence passes before she musters the courage to speak. “So this is it, then?”

“This is it.” Ron is already half out of his chair, whether in his desperation to finally escape or to keep her from seeing the emotion in his eyes, Hermione isn’t sure. 

“You’ll Floo if you need anything?” A clumsy offer, she knows, but it quells the uselessness crowding in her chest.

He arranges the remaining luggage before offering her a wan shrug. “If I say yes, will it make you feel better?”

Hermione sucks in a breath. It’s selfish to ask him for anything more—unhealthy for the both of them—but… they were friends before they were ever lovers, and Hermione can’t bear to lose both in one fell swoop, so she answers honestly. “It will.”

“I’ll Floo you the moment that I need anything, I promise,” he answers without a beat. “How about dinner after your next case, too? The one with the potions sourcing? It gives us a little under a month to get acclimated to—” He falters, lips drooping as he glances around the cottage. “To get acclimated to living apart.”

Neither of them can bear to call it what it is yet—an impending divorce—but Hermione appreciates the offer for what it is. “I’d like that. Maybe then we can talk about what we’re likely to tell you family.”

Ron’s skin blanches to a deep puce colour before he loosens an uncomfortable laugh, his expression both far away and entirely too aware of the situation. “Yeah, that will take some finesse. Thankfully George has mastered a bit more subtly. We shouldn’t have to worry about anything.” With more force than is strictly necessary, Ron pulls the door open, shepherding his bag onto the stoop.

Molly will be furious; Hermione can already imagine the argument. Weasleys don’t get divorced. They just put on their adult pants and dealt with it; they work through their problems and love each other through it.

Hermione wouldn’t have the heart to ask the woman what to do when there _weren’t_ really any problems to work through.

“We’ll figure it out, I imagine,” she mutters, closing the distance between herself and the door.

Moonlight glitters over the street, casting Ron’s face into shadows, but it doesn’t matter anyway—not when he’s as familiar to her as the back of her own hand. Sadness fights to bow his shoulders, but he pastes that grin on that she loves so dearly as he turns to her, his eyes downturned. “You take care of yourself, ‘Mione.” When she tips her chin down, he’s there, just as he always has been, to lift it back up. “None of that, now. Think of it as an adventure. Another new thing that Hermione Granger gets to excel at.”

He has far more faith in her than she does, but that doesn’t stop her from wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking herself into his much larger frame just one more time.

She inhales, orienting herself in the familiarity.

Grass.

Mint toothpaste.

Smoke. 

Her heart breaks a little further, but she lets him go, grateful for the dark and the steadiness to her voice. “I’ll see you in a month. Six o’clock sharp at the Phoenix Lounge. Don’t be late.”

His chuckle skitters over the sidewalk, barely audible over the clatter of his rolly bag on the cobbles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When the door thumps shut between them, Hermione turns, observing the bare room. His blanket is gone from the back of his armchair, his shoes missing from the mat where he usually discards them by the door. Even the cottage feels larger without his presence filling in the empty spaces, without his laughter colouring the space with its joy.

It’s too quiet without his presence, and she feels as though a weight has been simultaneously lifted off her shoulders and then dropped back down upon her. She turns, pressing her back against the wooden door.

This is it then.

The dissolution of twenty years of marriage.

Despair washes over her, a lead weight sinking deep in her belly and drawing her towards the ground as a sob escapes her.

As the sun goes down over London, Hermione cries herself to sleep with only her cat for company and a failed marriage to show for all her hard work.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's chapter one! Thanks for giving this a go, and please do sound off in the comments if you'd like to see more. I do have a couple more chapters drafted and intend continue, but I'd love some feedback from readers since I haven't sent it to an alpha or beta yet.


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